


Just Let Me

by DickBaggins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Blow Jobs, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Panties, Past Relationship(s), Past Underage, Supernatural Kink Bingo 2016, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, past wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 22:30:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7910077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DickBaggins/pseuds/DickBaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even settled into a normal life, Dean devotes himself to Sam fully and completely, but when Sam leaves for college, Dean falls apart. Adam is there to pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Let Me

Dean sits in Sam's room most nights. He told Kate he'd clean up. Wash the sheets. Take care of the pile of laundry Sam left.

It's been a month and he hasn't done any of that.

The sheets don't really smell like Sam anymore.

But Dean sits here most nights on the edge of the bed, drinking whatever he can find. Dad's castoffs, usually. Tonight, it's a quarter of a bottle of Jack he found on the back porch. John never notices or if he does, he doesn't say anything. Dean's confident no one notices his night-time vigil, either.

Sam called him the first night. Dean called him the second. He sounded good, nervous-excited tremors in his voice that Dean still hears. He hates it.

Phone tag since then. Dean knows it's on purpose. Sam's talked to Dad and Kate. Sam's called Adam. But he's done with Dean. And Dean never pushes him.

Dean just sits and drinks and thinks.

The first time he kissed Sam happened here. The last time too. And the night before he left, that was the first time Sam let Dean spoon around him, mercifully ignoring Dean's little girl sobs, while Dean clung on and thought over all the things he wanted Sam to say right then, all the things he never would.

Like _I love you, Dean._

_I'm gonna stay here, with you._

_You should come with me._

_We can run away, we can go anywhere._

Sam never said anything that night. The goodbye in the doorway in the morning, in front of everyone, was insufficient. Like how everything is.

Dean's nearly finished the whiskey, the bottle stuffed between his legs, his head buried in a pillow that doesn't smell like Sam's teenage-sharp smell anymore. He doesn't hear the door crack open or the soft footsteps creeping in. Doesn't register anything until the bed dips gentle beside him, and he looks blearily over, half-expecting Sam there, by some miracle.

It's Adam. He's always so silent. He clasps his hand around the bottle and tugs it over and reasonably, Dean should stop him. He's thirteen; he shouldn't be drinking.

“I miss him too, Dean,” Adam says, quiet and just as hurt as Dean feels.

Dean nods, swallows hard and casts the pillow aside. He doesn't want to explain. But maybe he doesn't have to, with Adam. The kid's sharp. He must know.

“He called me yesterday,” Adam says, his voice rough-edges from the whiskey he isn't used to, but still soft, sweet. “He asked how you were.”

Dean lets a breath out through his nose, can't decide if this is good or bad. Or nothing. Probably it's nothing. “What did you say?”

“The truth,” Adam passes the bottle back after another half-swig, nearly coughs on this one but holds it in. “I said you weren't doing great. You're drinking too much and you aren't sleeping and uncle Bobby's mad you aren't at work and - “

“Jesus, kid,” Dean mutters, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands and is it really that bad?All together like that, he sounds like a mess.

He is a mess.

“And Sam said to tell you he's doing okay so you don't need to keep worrying.”

Dean nearly laughs for the first time in who knows when. It's nearly funny but it's also not. He hasn't worried about Sam since his baby brother was twelve, always knew Sam was the tough one. He's not _worried_.

They were fucked up together, it was fucked up and one sided and it hurt like a bitch but it was all Dean wanted.

_Just let me...just let me_.

Now he has nothing. Now Sam has divested his burden and lost himself to college, to normalcy without a sicko brother waiting at home, begging to get his face fucked or his ass filled.

So Dean's not worried. He misses Sam like a phantom limb, like he knew he would, except a thousand times worse. A million. Infinitely worse.

“He sounded good,” Adam assures him and the whiskey's all gone after that. Dean lets the bottle thud onto the floor and leans into his step-brother and Adam's hand curls around his forearm, squeezes, slides. His fingers are soft like he's soft all over. Probably everywhere.

“Good,” Dean croaks.

Adam's fingers tangle clumsy into Dean's. Dean feels him swallow, feels his breathing pick up from their shoulders jammed together. “You loved him a lot, huh?” His voice shakes a bit even though this isn't news to anyone, this is the most obvious thing in the entire world.

“Yeah.”

Adam swallows again. His hand slips away, the bed shakes and he's on his feet in front of Dean. “I saw you once,” he starts. It's a whisper; it makes Dean's heart pound. “I didn't know what you were doing but...but it looked like you liked it.”

Dean looks up slow and there is another understatement to beat them all; he's loved every fucked up thing Sam's done to him for the last five years, every single one. Adam's face is nervous-sweet, his hands clasped in front of him, restlessly twisting his fingers around each other.

“I thought maybe...brothers just did that stuff. I thought that for a while.”

“Adam -” Dean doesn't get anything out.

Because Adam unbuttons his jeans and pulls them open and the zipper sings apart and there's just pink under there, so much pink. Baby pink.

Dean can't help it; he leans forward, slides Adam's shirt up and feels his skin jump under the touch and he's wearing panties, soft pink cotton wrapped around his slim hips, the faint bulge of his little dick standing out against the sweet color.

“I found these,” Adam says, “Just like, in the laundry?”

His fingers pass over the shiny elastic in the waistband, fingertips just as pink as the cotton, nails trimmed neat and short.

Dean slides his shirt up higher and Adam's all soft there too, gentle slopes over jutting hipbones, summer-tanned skin with blond fuzz that glitters in the dim light.

“And I thought they might be like...your girlfriend's. Or Sam's. But...”

He fades off and Dean cranes his neck up, watches Adam's doe-eyes flutter shut and open and he's been here before but Adam doesn't look like Sam, not even if he squints, not even with all the whiskey, not even with more.

“But I don't think you like girls. Either of you.”

Dean just nods because no, he doesn't like girls. He doesn't like guys either. He likes _Sam_.

Indulgent hazel eyes and spindly legs and twiggy fingers. His sigh of assent, the grunt when he comes. Dean likes Sam and only Sam.

_Except._

_Except maybe._

“I think I'm the same way?” Adam says and it's a question, definitely and he's just that age and he offers a weak little smile down at Dean, “Isn't that weird?”

It is.

“It's okay,” Dean breathes out, flattens his hand on Adam's stomach. He twitches under Dean's fingers, so sensitive and that's just like Sam, at first. Hair-trigger everything and arching into every touch, scared and excited. “Hey, we can find out for sure, huh?”

Adam sucks in a breath, audible, keeps doing it, panting and his belly heaves so cute under Dean's fingers.

Dean looks down just in time to catch the first twitch of his brother's dick in the pink panties; he _wants it_ and he doesn't know how that's even possible but he does, so bad. His head spins from it, his whole being heavy and light at the same time. He brushes his palm across the panties and Adam surges forward against it with a clipped moan.

It's music, it's high and desperate and it gets Dean on his knees, his cheek nuzzling Adam through the panties, soaking up that teenage-boy smell that isn't unfamiliar, somehow. It's nice, it's just nice and comfortable and Dean knows this is where he belongs, on his knees.

No one's done this to the kid before, it's obvious, and all it takes is a minute scraping his stubbled cheek across the soft fabric and he's leaking, a dark pink spot tacky under Dean's face. He lets out a soft noise, darts his tongue along the wet pinkness and it's so sweet, Adam tastes so sweet already. Dean presses harder against the wetness, grasps his brother's little hips to stop him twitching and moving.

And then Dean's getting hard too; he groans with the first jerk of his dick in his jeans, so unexpected, nearly a miracle because even porn can't give him erections anymore. For so so long, it's just been Sam. Sam's fingers prying his mouth apart or Sam's near-brutal thrusting or the smell of him nearby. Just Sam.

And it's been a month.

Adam's legs shake the more Dean mouths at the compact bulge, shake so bad he threatens to topple. So Dean wraps around him, lifts gentle and twists until Adam hits the bed and sinks into it, laying back, very much not-Sam against Sam's sheets.

But he could be, almost, just from the wide eyes and the long limbs and the heaving breath.

Dean climbs between his legs and rushes the panties off, cradles them all down Adam's pony legs and kisses his way back up. For another minute, he can't not think of Sam; he's practically luxuriating in the memory.

Sam was spread out like this, little-kid hard and naked and squirming shy and _“what are you doing, De?”_ and Dean's prayer-chant of _“just let me, Sammy, just let me”_ and he's nearly there, nearly back there except...

“Please?” Adam huffs, one arm extending down, stroking at Dean's face and he wants it just as much as Dean does and it's so strange but Dean feels a thrilling rush of pride.

He sinks his mouth all the way down Adam's dick, hollows his cheeks and the boy's hands tug at his hair. It's long just for this, just so Sam could pull on it and make his eyes water but Adam isn't that rough.

It's nice like this.

Dean's _surprised_ , fully hard and rutting against the bed. His mouth's not full until he opens wider and everything pops inside, Adam's round little balls and his still-smallish dick and he _sucks_ and Adam sobs and his whole body arches and he comes in Dean's mouth just like that.

Dean swallows, always, swallows until Adam's shaking and babbling high-pitched and trying to twitch away and after a moment, Dean lets him, even though he hates this part; the part where his mouth isn't full, where the taste of come is still there but fading away, where he isn't being used up.

He doesn't know what to do now. Adam isn't moving, isn't rolling off the bed and bolting for the bathroom like Sam used to do. Adam's still _there_ , still with his hands in Dean's hair, his wide eyes staring down and his chest heaving.

“Dean – Dean,” is all he can pant for the moment, strung together and little boy high.

Dean crawls up slow, soft sheets rustling under him, Adam's softer body stretching beside him, faintly beaded with sweat. He launches at Dean, tucks his head into his t-shirt and wraps long, bony arms around him. Dean's heart hammers hard and he isn't sure if he can, if he should, but he slides his arms around Adam too, feels him sigh and burrow in deeper and he's furnace hot and this is suddenly so perfect.

Like something Dean always wanted. Something he gave up on.

He kisses into Adam's hair and they stay like that for a while, until Adam shudders and pulls away a little and _this is it_ , this is the end.

“Can I...” Adam trails off; Dean watches him bite his pink bottom lip pinker, his eyes flickering down and up again, doe-shy.

“You don't have to,” Dean breathes out quiet. _This old line_. “Not until you're ready.”

“I'm ready, just let me try,” Adam assures him, and he looks like it, somehow. That glow-flush in his cheeks, that curious glint in his eyes and his hands already skim down Dean's chest, undoing his pants and reaching in so so fast and inexpertly and it doesn't even matter.

Dean nearly flinches away; it's _new_ , it's sick and sad that he's here for the first time now but this is just how it goes, apparently.

Adam's grip is soft, his gasp surprised. “It's really big, I didn't know,” he whispers.

Dean just nods, feels fireworks at that tiny, knobby hand squeezing him. He's a wet mess and Adam doesn't know what he's doing but it doesn't even matter; Dean's boiling up from the inside out and jerkily thrusting against Adam's hand and then there's his other one to pick up the slack. He's too fast, it's too good and Dean's body rockets to his release embarrassingly fast.

His teeth clench, head thrown back, whining, just whining while he shoots all over everything, the bed, his clothes, Adam's perfect, inelegant hands.

“There's so much,” he hears his brother whispering between them, just quiet awe and something sweeter.

But Dean's _dying_ and he can't explain it, can't explain why it felt so good, that Adam's the first person to even touch him like that, can't explain any of it.

Maybe he doesn't have to.

Minutes-hours later, Dean's eyes flutter open to gentle kitten-sounds and Adam's cleaning his hand with the most curious, rapt devotion, like how Dean feels when he does it and he sighs a laugh. They're both fucking filthy and it's a relief.

He reaches out, strokes along Adam's cheek, thumbs down to his wet mouth and inside. Adam looks at him and smiles shy and Dean kisses him, kisses the taste of himself out of Adam's mouth and back in. It's dark and dirty and he feels light and not quite happy, not exactly that but it's close enough, whatever it is.

They're tucked together and Dean's just drifting off when he remembers where they are, and how ruined all of that is. Forever, probably, because they did this in _that_ bed but tangled up in Adam's long skinny limbs, nothing seems so far away as Sam.

But Dean still creeps down the hall to his room, with Adam quietly in tow, fingers curled hard around his arm.

 


End file.
